Sherlock : The Gemini Parable
by Gotham'sProphet
Summary: John Watson hadn't many friends outside of the military. In it, two. Leonard and Bridge Grayson, twins. The first a marine, the latter a RAF pilot. Years ago, Bridge made a deal with Moriarty. A home for them as recent orphans in the military, in exchange for service later on. But Moriarty made a different play, kidnapping Leo.Rated M for language and ludicrous amounts of violence.
1. A Deal with the Devil

My brother always told me that when I can't speak my mind, I must write it down…

I should probably start with the fundamentals. My name is Bridgette Grayson, but everyone calls me Bridge.

I'm a former Royal Air Force airman on the wrong side of thirty with too many stories to tell, and I've been to too many funerals. Afghanistan's taken more than its share from me.

My twin brother, Leonard or Leo, has just been kidnapped. And with him being a Royal Marine, this is _not _something to just idly fret over.

All our lives, from the time our parents were murdered right from under us, Leo has been the mouth and I've been the brain. We became a singular unit inside two bodies.

Now that he is gone, I've been without a voice and quite literally cannot speak.

In fact, I've barely spoken my entire life, save for my brother and few others.

There was a man I knew in the military and my brother and I both befriended him in camp. He was a doctor, with a unsettlingly bad bedside manner. Trust me, I had a broken wrist once after a flight and the weeks I spent going to him was both a hilarious and painful adventure.

But he and my brother were the best of friends, I found I could trust this man. I kept up with him after we parted ways on our way to home. He left for London and I went back to Edinburgh with my brother. We sent letters back and forth, him to us and us to him. John was a dear friend to us. The only we had. He told us he was sharing a flat with some eccentric consulting detective.

And then my brother was taken. I'd gone out for a goods run on a cloudy Thursday. When I returned, the white porch was covered in glass from the windows and the door looked like someone had a go with a crowbar. I dropped my bags, ignoring the cracking noise the eggs made when they hit the steps. I took out my gun - which since coming home I'd made a habit of having on me when I went out – and when I went inside…

Blood, glass and torn clothing. Everywhere. Signs of a weapons discharge, and a note.

**Time to collect, my dear Bridgette. **

**Collect the firstborn of the Grayson family, but since you and Leonard were born at the same time, I only need one of you! Oh, and I expect five million dollars for your brother unharmed (much). Since I'm in a good mood, I'll give you a month to mull it over. I've got all the time in the world. Have a nice day!**

**Rumplestiltskin**

**P.S. That was funny, you're supposed to laugh. **

I'm leaving things out…When our parents were killed, I made a deal with a man they knew.

A deal with the Devil.

Only the Devil was once an angel.

This man was always a monster. I could tell. A monster who laughed.

His name?

Moriarty.

I made a deal with him. Leo and I needed money to keep us going until our eighteenth birthday, a bus ticket, and recruitment papers to go to the military, somewhere where we'd at least have a home. And he wanted something in return. He said if we were to become soldiers of any kind, that one day in a few years…he'd want one or both of us to become his soldiers, then. Blackmail. I couldn't find the words to refuse, I'd just lost my parents. I needed to be sure that my brother and I would be taken care of.

But this was different. He wants ransom. Five million dollars. I know how he wants me to get that money. He expects me to kill. I'm a pilot, not a killer.

This is to be my diary, detailing my life in a loud world without a voice and my brother nowhere to be found.

I am in need of two men.

I'm having nightmares at night, and I'm a mute who can't scream.

I need a doctor.

My brother's just been kidnapped and I'm being forced to negotiate ransom with Lucifer's evil twin.

I need a detective.

I'm off to London, diary. I'll be in touch.

- Bridge

* * *

><p>PRIVATE BLOG - Draft 1:<p>

8th, July

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock isn't my only friend. It's been a hot July so far, and yet when I saw her again, every nerve in my body ran absolutely cold.

It started as just another Saturday, if unusually hot. I was sweating bullets in a wife-beater and shorts, and Sherlock was in a damned sheet again. Probably has the right idea, him. We had two fans going and I was trying to position them to where it'd circulate fresh air. Had half a mind to run out and buy an air conditioner out of pocket.

Sherlock, being him, was doing that thing with his hands and lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling from the sofa. His hair was curlier in the heat, but the sheet was dry, no sweat. Sometimes I wonder if he really would turn out to be human if I dissected him.

Then I heard Mrs. Hudson call from the stairs, her old lady's legs climbing up them. "John! There's a girl here for you!"

I raised my eyebrows. Been a while since that happened.

When our landlady reached our doorstep, she added, "Wouldn't say a word, though. Just held up a little note that had your name on it."

"_No…_" I said, my lips spreading in a grin. I haven't seen the Grayson twins since…well, a long time.

Sherlock had ignored us for the most of it, until I started for the door and he had gotten up to follow me. I turned and put a hand on his shoulder. "No, _you _get some clothes. We're having friends over."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "John, I'm afraid I haven't a clue as to who you're referring to. Your parents aren't in town, are they?"

"No, they're old friends of mine. And if you're rude to them, they could both probably kill you in a variety of different ways, now will you get something on?" I said quickly, still holding a smirk.

All the great Sherlock Holmes had to say to that was, "Very well, then."

I hustled down the steps and opened the door. I'd expected there to be two now, that Mrs. Hudson had only seen Bridge because Leo was in the pub grabbing a bite after a long trip from Edinburgh. But still…there was only Bridge. And the heat disintegrated into frigidity.

"Bridge."

She had cut off her dark hair was the first thing I noticed. Really short, almost like a boy's. The Bridge I knew was one of those pilot girls who loved having her hair in the wind, though wouldn't dare talk about it. In fact, I've only heard her say two words to me in the entire time I've known her. "Where's Leonard?", mostly. Her eyes were sharper, gray like ash but there was something so obviously off.

"What's wrong?" I asked, coming up to her but not touching her.

Being a woman who wouldn't speak, you learn to read her face. She was wearing leather, she meant business. She was holding six or more sticky notes. The first, which I noticed had my name on it, she discarded into a waste bin outside the pub.

The second she held up.

_Leo's been kidnapped. _

My heart sank and I paled. "By who?"

She threw that note away and lifted another.

_Moriarty. Ever heard of him?_

No…

When I looked away from the note, Bridge – a woman I'd never imagined could cry – was on the verge of tears. Leonard was her whole world, her family. That much I gathered from our time in Afghanistan. She'd die for him gladly. And here she was without him.

She threw the note with the name on it and pried another from the others, trying not to break down.

_Could I stay with you for a while? I have no place else to go. I need to find him. He's all I've got. _

"I'll help you." I answered, almost immediately.

I met her sparkling eyes for permission, and she nodded. I pulled her to me and held her. She didn't really cry, like most would. She's not that sort of girl. She just needed to hold onto something. I hope she didn't mind the sweaty shirt. Bridge was alone. How could I not help her? In a way, she and Leo were family too. Leo…

And in the clutches of a man like Moriarty, who knows where he could be?

My mind answered that question before I could finish my thought. Sherlock.

"Listen, Bridge," She peeked up at me through her eyelashes as she let me go. "My detective friend, you remember?" She nodded. "He and I'll help you find Leonard. I promise you I'll bring him back to you. Understood?"

Bridge gave me a stare then that I'll never forget. Her ash-gray eyes turned hard and her gaze was nearly impossible to look away from. I held it. She clutched my shirt again, her hands balled into fists. I knew exactly what she was saying, I knew her well enough.

_You keep that promise, John Watson. Or I'll never forgive myself for trusting you. _

For now, I'm calling this case the Gemini Parable.


	2. There Are Worse Things

"Sherlock, this is Bridge Grayson. Ex-RAF, and a good friend of mine," John introduced, a hand on my shoulder.

This was a peculiar creature indeed. All cheekbones, curly black hair and those eyes. He wore a loose purple button-down and slacks, his forehead shining in the heat. So this was the Sherlock Holmes that amazed John. I kept up with their blogs and Leo and I had both written to John, so I'd read about their adventures together solving crimes. He seemed ordinary, Sherlock.

"Bridge, Sherlock Holmes."

That was until he opened his mouth. His deep voice was almost insulting in tone. "Pleasure."

"I think her problem's worthy of your time." John added as if reading the other man's thoughts, before going into the kitchen and leaving me in the sitting room with him. I kept standing, staring at Sherlock.

"Do you now?" Sherlock mused, a corner of his mouth curling. "And what is your problem?"

I only kept his gaze. When all he got was silence for a few minutes, he huffed and I noted an impatience to put Leo to shame. "Well, out with it! Or are you a-_Oh._" His thick eyebrows lifted. "You're a mute."

John returned then with a cup of tea for me, and he gave me a knowing smile. "Don't mind him. Please, sit."

I nodded in thanks, as he gestured towards a leather armchair and I slowly sat in it, careful not to spill the tea. John scolded his flat mate, "Knock it off. She's not a mute."

"Selective mute, then," Sherlock waved him off, glaring at me as I drank. "I fail to see how this is worth my time."

I bit the inside of my mouth. This is odd. My silence has never been tested like this before. Sure there were bullies when I was young, testosterone-filled men in the military and I was required to speak to perform my duties as an airman, but….this was something else entirely. I glanced around the desk by the windows and grabbed a notepad, fishing out a pen from my pocket. Taking it in my left hand, I scrawled a few words and held them up to Sherlock, along with my middle finger.

_Moriarty. That worth your time? _

Sherlock's eyes darkened. "Tell me what happened."

But when I started writing again, he scowled. "That's too slow, take this."

He went to lean over his laptop, opening a document before he thrust the computer onto my lap. I nearly spilled my tea and John gave Sherlock a cold look despite the heat.

I typed every detail in my mind from the moment I got home from the grocery store. The glass on the porch. The mangled door. Holding my gun with steady hands but shaking breaths. What it looked like inside, like a bloody whirlwind. I typed the note the madman'd left verbatim. How could I forget? It's been the solitary thing running through my head since I'd read it for the first time through tears. I stopped typing.

Sherlock got his laptop back and began reading. I caught John's eye and he grasped my limp hand. The consulting detective said lowly, "John, we are conducting work. I can't think with sentiment in the room."

"I think you'll have to get over it," John barked back, growing annoyed with his friend's constant jabs at me.

I wrote him a quick note on the notepad. _You needn't scold him, I'm quite adept at tuning people out. _

"Doesn't make it right," He reminded me. I shrugged.

I wasn't here for Sherlock's insults or John's comfort, despite how much I appreciated the latter. I was here to find my brother. That's all I cared about at that moment. I drank more tea and closed my eyes, swilling the warm liquid in my mouth.

"This is incomplete."

I opened them again to find Sherlock laying the laptop down on my thighs. His eyes were accusatory and his tone suspicious. "There's something missing from your tale. Why would someone like Moriarty just kidnap your brother seemingly at random? Why would he be interested in an elective mute's twin brother?"

I narrowed my eyes and I didn't need a note to convey the message.

_I don't need to tell you everything. I just need you to find him from what I gave you._

"She doesn't need your badgering, Sherlock," John chided, his eyebrows furrowing. "Please, it's the last time I'll ask. Leave her alone."

"My job is to find the truth at any cost," Sherlock stated flatly, exchanging nonverbal communication to John through their eyes. Communication even I couldn't read. "Not to cater to the emotions of the client. That's what therapists and psychologists are for."

His eyes went to mine now and I held his gaze defiantly. He spoke very quickly then. "The pen you're using came from City Hotel London and by your complexion, bone structure and jaw line, I'd say you were raised in Scotland. Go to your suite and get some rest. Our car will be there for you at 7AM. We leave for Kings Cross in the morning."

I haven't a clue how John puts up with him.

* * *

><p>PRIVATE BLOG – THE GEMINI PARABLE<p>

9th, July

The quick ride to the station the next morning was uncomfortably quiet; I was driving, Sherlock in the passenger's side and Bridge took the seat behind me in the back. Sherlock was staring at her through the rear view, calculating and loathing. It was almost a relief that she listened to an iPod on the way, so that she could ignore the discussion occurring in the front of the car. While she stared fixatedly out of the window, my flatmate was trying to…it burdens me to even think he'd pull this on a friend of mine…_deduce _her. Like she was some sort of guinea pig he could test his skills out on, now that she posed a particular challenge as a mute. He refers to speaking by suspect or client as "hints". And now that he didn't get any guidance, she was just another puzzle to him.

It was cruel, and so as he kept deducing, I refuted the particularly insulting ones. Ones that I'm sure he'd thrown in just to annoy me. Things like "not a virgin" and "anarchist". There's no possible way he could know the first, and what anarchist would join the RAF? He and I both knew it was because we hadn't had a case in a good two months before this, and he was bored. He knew I was protective of her, and so he'd busy himself with annoying me until this case was furthered. The time it took to travel was just a limbo that he hated.

Thankfully, we got to Kings Cross quicker than I'd thought we would, and soon the noise and confusion of the station compelled the use of Sherlock's concentration more than Bridge. She looked over my shoulder to see the number on our tickets for the correct train, and her keen airman's eyes went to searching. Suddenly and seemingly without warning, she took off into the mass of people. Sherlock and I didn't have a chance to follow, and I was the one with the ten-pound bag of "equipment" he insisted was absolutely essential.

"Perhaps a leash…or at least a bell, John?" He lamented, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"She is a _woman, _not a retriever," I was growing tired of this, narrowing my eyes at him. As I did, I saw a little sliver of liquid fall from above into his curly black hair and he stiffened automatically, glaring straight up. I looked and saw Bridge leaning over the railing on the catwalk above us, her cheeks like a chipmunk's. As she held up a soft drink cup, she quirked a smile and held up two fingers to her eyes, then pointing them out to her left. I matched her gaze, checked our tickets again. She'd found us our train. I grinned up at her and she winked in a rare show of playfulness, throwing her cup away in a waste bin beside her.

"Good work, Bridge," I called up to her, and together – her above and us below- we made our way over to it. I'd opened the door for her, and Sherlock gave her another harsh glare as we came aboard.

But once we found a compartment to ourselves, the game changed drastically. This time, Bridge left her earbuds out and Sherlock looked like he was ready to interrogate her again. Five hours we were riding in this thing together. Lord have mercy. He had that expression on his face, like a cat about to tear into an unsuspecting mouse. And I'm guessing she sensed the oncoming storm too, because she opened her duffle bag as soon as she'd sat down and took out a mechanical pencil and a yellow notepad.

After our tickets were punched and the train pulled out, Sherlock shifted in his single seat to lie on his back, his eyes on the ceiling where his equipment bag was and his hands up under his chin. The storm wasn't starting now, I suppose, just picking up wind and warning everyone with its passive-aggressiveness before it blew everything right to hell. How very like him.

Lowly, though I knew Sherlock could hear, I said to her, "Nicely done there with the drink."

With a careful hand, she wrote in the top right margin of her notepad and tilted it so I could see.

_He shouldn't have called me an anarchist in the car. Revenge is in human nature, is it not? _

My eyebrows picked up, and because I didn't want him hearing me, I replied with her pencil. _You weren't listening to your music, were you?_

Flicking a quick glance at him to make sure he didn't see her, she shook her head no with a half-smile. She clicked the top of her pencil to get more graphite and wrote me again.

_It was an experiment to see what he would say if he thought I wasn't listening. He's a piece of work, I'll admit. Any family? _

"Both parents, an older brother," I informed her, curious.

Her reply made me burst out laughing. _They have my utmost pity. _

I forgot how much I missed her sort of humor. It was the sort that was said with absolute clarity, and the facial expression made it ten times better because Bridge was the unparalleled queen of straight faces. Then again, I wondered if this was because she wasn't actually saying the words.

"Don't worry, I won't tell him," I teased, my eyes on him to draw out my satisfaction. "Our secret."

To be honest, it felt wonderful to have Bridge around to torture Sherlock. For a while, I'd merely tolerated his antics and his kind of abuse that wore on the mind. It was kind of nice to get some payback. I agreed with her. Revenge _is _in human nature.

"If you two are quite done," Said a condescending drawl from the other side of the compartment, "I have a couple of questions for Miss Grayson."

He sat up again, crossing his legs and focusing his clear blue eyes on Bridge. "What are the arrangements for the house since you've been gone? Have the police been watching it?"

She scrawled for a moment and then handed him the notepad, eyeing him like a student does a disliked teacher that inspects her work over her shoulder. Sherlock seemed amused. "'Countryside,' you say? 'No neighbors.' Good. No interference."

"The second?" I asked.

"I noticed a smoking-friendly car before we came in," He said, as if what he was saying was truly trivial and he motioned to get up. He cast a pointed look at me, "And if I _must _be polite…" Sherlock turned his gaze to Bridge and then said, as if it caused him physical pain to do so. "Care to join me?"

Apparently not caring whether he got an answer, he left the compartment. To my surprise, she stood and produced a noticeably old golden square lighter along with a pack of Marlboros. I knew that Leonard sometimes lit up a smoke when he was antsy, but I can't recall when ever she had. My eyebrows knit together. "I didn't know you smoked."

She scribbled a note. _Started shortly after I left the RAF. Not entirely sure why. Is it alright that I smoke? _

"Nah, I don't mind," I waved her off and offered a reassuring smile, "I live with a smoker…Do you want me to come with you?" She knew what the rest of it was. _So Sherlock doesn't harass you as much. _

She tucked her notepad under her arm and held the side of her jacket away to show me the little can of pepper spray attached underneath. I grinned. "Never mind."

As she patted her jeans for her phone and wallet, I laid down flat in the seat. "I'm going to take a nap, he had me up all night buzzing about this case and I didn't get any real sleep. Wake me up when we get there?"

She gave me a thumbs-up and followed the consulting detective, having the mind to close the door quietly. I closed my eyes, and let the drowsiness that'd been building since I started the car this morning take me prisoner.

* * *

><p>I hadn't been lying to John when I said I had no clue why I'd started smoking to start with. Leonard had been smoking since we were nineteen, but it wasn't that I had no idea how the cigarettes got into my hands. One night, Leo and I were thinking about Afghanistan. We always thought about things like that at the same time, like a symphony of bad memories. And he just caught my eye. He'd already been smoking, and for the first time in years since he'd finished his first one…he offered the pack to me.<p>

And for reasons I still don't know, I took one between my teeth. Since then, I smoked sparingly. A few moments to wait for the metro, caught under an awning during a rain shower, stepping out onto the front porch after a date with a good book. I knew it was bad for my health, I'd done my research on the subject.

But I knew there were worse things than tar in my lungs.

I ghosted on Sherlock's heels until we were three cars down the train from our compartment, and it seemed like a dining section. One side was devoted to a bar and the other was entirely windows, tables with wrought-iron seating. For once, it was sunny outside and golden light streamed through to set the beige curtains to a cream color. Sherlock chose a lonely table away from the two occupied ones, one by a couple – another by a businessman, and sat.

He seemed indifferent upon seeing that I had came, and once I got into my seat, he avoided my eyes. Setting my notepad and pencil on the table, I threw a Marlboro between my teeth and offered the pack to him, his slender fingers sliding a smoke out. I had noticed a violin sitting in the corner of their flat when I'd been there yesterday, but I knew now that it was likely to be him who played it. John wasn't musical. Or at least nothing I'd seen in Afghanistan made me think him to be.

I lit mine and drew in a breath through it. He set the end of his ablaze, speaking through smoke after his first drag. "I typically use nicotine patches, but I promised John I'd be civil."

Being blatantly rude when he thought I wasn't listening was 'civil'? I switched hands with my cigarette, and wrote him, my fingers going faster than normal in jitters.

_If I were really an anarchist, civility would be wasted. _

As much as I would've loved to stretch out John and I's taunts, his reaction made this worth it. His eyes widened and he stopped in his motion of flicking ash into a black tray in the center of the table. I added a footnote.

_You would've noticed my iPod was off if you'd stopped talking long enough. _

He was silent for several moments, re-reading my words. Eventually, after what I'd say was ten minutes, he returned his smoke to his mouth and stared me fully in the eyes. He was pensive, as if working out a huge conundrum in his head. I didn't see why, it was rather simple. I fooled the great Sherlock Holmes John told me about in his letters and in his blog.

He was such a strange man, even to just observe. His eyes were bluer as the sunlight hit them, and the sleepless purple shadows under them almost disappeared in the golden rays. The grayish snakes of smoke were blown to the side before he spoke again, "It seems I have underestimated you…Bridge."

I realized that this was the first time he'd ever said my name. It sounded odd coming from him, like hearing it crystal clear though he sounded so far away. And though he didn't say the words, I could hear the apology in his voice. I had to think to make sure I heard it correctly, but it was unmistakable. I masked my hesitation by holding my cigarette between my teeth and tugging my notepad closer to myself again, writing.

_You needn't apologize. Everyone does at first. I've grown quite used to it. _

He read my lettering upside-down as I wrote it, and before I could turn the notepad around, Sherlock asked, "Did you ever run into any grief with that in the military?"

I thought of older times, when I first started as an ordinary whelp and before I'd earned my wings. Drill sergeants during PT demanding to know if I was dense or deaf, having to hold Leo back from men who'd try to pick a fight with the girl who doesn't talk back. I thought to my first mission in a command position, when I'd been promoted on skill alone. I answered him.

_Much. Only spoke when duty mandated it. Some of my wingmen heard me speak for the first time giving them orders. They didn't know it was me talking until after I'd repeated myself. _

I turned the notepad around and watched his face as he read. He nodded, and then inquired with a hint of genuine curiosity in his tone. "How'd you meet our friend Dr. Watson, then?"

That was an easy one.

_A particularly nasty assignment ended with a broken wrist and bones sticking out where they shouldn't. I went to the infirmary on the base and lo and behold, Dr. John Watson was tending to me. Ended up with two screws in my right wrist and airport security's had a beef with me ever since. _

His mouth fought a smile at my idle joke at the end, and when his eyes darted to my right hand, I bared my blue-veined wrist. I stuck my cigarette in the ash tray for a moment, and I traced two parallel lines of scar tissue.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock met my eyes again. He leaned forward, tapping his cigarette to get rid of the excess ash.

I was always on edge when he did that. That stare that always seemed to indicate he knew something I didn't, and I always panicked a little inside. I'm always so careful, so precise and withholding with everything I said. I was my own editor, and I couldn't afford to slip. Not around someone like Sherlock Holmes.

"I don't mean to alarm you," He started, smoke circling his head like a gray-blue halo. "But my investigations and methods of deduction are as extensive and intricate as performing a surgery. I have to peel away the possibilities until the fruit of truth is all that remains, and…like this cigarette…it may do more harm than good along the way. Most criminals are cancerous."

Despite his eloquence, there was one fact I was quite quick and adamant to point out. I wrote the name over three times until it was bolded like on the computer.

_Most criminals aren't __**Moriarty. **_

"True, though are you prepared to see this through to the end?" Sherlock fidgeted under the glare I speared through him that followed this question. "Your brother may already be lost to us, and it may take longer than a month to locate him."

I felt like I'd been slapped and my teeth grit. It took a great effort to maintain composure as I wrote a paragraph and I noticed that my anger had made my lettering more jagged, sharp but I barely cared. I tore the page off and almost threw it at him. I crammed my cigarette out in the tray and left him in the bar. I watched him as he read what I'd written with blank, unreadable eyes.

_I'd know if my brother is dead. I would know and I would feel it. And worry not, Sherlock Holmes. I'm fully prepared to see this through to the end. I don't care if I have to sit through fifty car rides of you insulting me, or play Twenty Tedious Questions with you until the end of time, or watch you ridicule John for all eternity before I get my twin back. Even if it kills me. In the future, keep your mind on business and find me my brother. _

* * *

><p>John could tell I was frazzled when I woke him up, but was probably too sleep-deprived at first to really dig into it. Grabbing my duffle and shoving past Sherlock on my way out of the compartment, I came off the train and dashed ahead of the men to locate my car in the parking lot outside of the station.<p>

It was a mint green Volkswagen Bug that was old enough to be John's car's grandfather. My brother was a grease monkey at heart, and loved to tinker with old cars, such as this ancient Bug that he brought back from extinction. I fished for my keys in my duffle while Sherlock and John caught up. The doctor threw the equipment bag in the back, and then occupied shotgun, leaving the detective to sit in the back.

I started the car and thus placed the hustle and bustle of Edinburgh behind us.

I put on my usual mix CD of instrumental music. No words, just like me. Nothing for sure, nothing for certain…just…emotion suspended in sound. Violins, cellos, piano. It was the sort of music you would play to sleep to, but me, I use it to think. John fell asleep again, but it wasn't as heavy as the one he'd fallen into on the train. This sleep was gentler on his face, and I found myself glancing over to him. His peaceful face made me smile. And I could use more of those, going back to the house.

As I glimpsed the white face of Sherlock directly behind me through the rear view, I noticed that he had dozed off too. My stomach twisted. _Your brother may already be lost to us. _He'd said it like it wasn't a matter of 'may' but 'is.' I stood by my rebuttal. I would be able to feel it if he were dead; I would feel it in my soul. I was Leo's twin. I tossed the thought to the side.

We were in the hills now. These days in the highlands, the gentle July showers were moving in and roughly twenty minutes into the drive, slow fat drops of rain were rolling down the glass to the windows. I turned the music down slightly to let them sleep, but heard a grumbling beside me after I did.

"'ey, was listening to that." Came John's voice, thick with sleep, from the passenger's side. He straightened in his seat, readjusting the seatbelt from where he'd pushed it out of the way so he could get comfortable. "Where're we?"

I tapped the GPS attached to the windshield. He squinted at it, and pointed to a town on the digital map in front of us. "There's Peebles…"

I slowed, seeing the familiar turnoff dirt road on the right leading right into the forest.

"I guess we're not going that far," John said, before reaching from his seat to nudge Sherlock awake as I wheeled the Bug in. It was a slow incline, and as it came into view, a lump formed in my throat.

The house was a two-story abode, red with eggshell-colored window shutters although most of the paint was chipped and the white underneath was showing through. The recently painted white porch, and I could see the brown paper shopping bag still in the mud where I'd dropped it, untouched and soiled. The blood smeared on the top step was visible even at thirty yards where the driveway ended. I shut the Bug off, clicked my seatbelt off and my hands fell limply in my lap.

My eyes wouldn't move from that trail of blood, even as John and Sherlock got out and rounded up the equipment in the back. Eventually, as time seemed to be in slow-motion, I slid out of my car and opened my duffle bag in the driver's seat. I dove my hand in the pile of clothes and belongings I couldn't leave in that house when I'd left…and my fingers curled around my gun. I unzipped my jacket and patted my pepper spray inside. I double-checked my pistol.

When John came up to me and eyed the gun, his blonde eyebrows came together. "Expecting trouble?"

I didn't answer, as per usual, but when I pushed it into my belt, he had a hand on my forearm. I could feel his heat through the leather. I looked from his gentle hand to him.

"Are you good to be in there again?" He asked me, cautious and steady in his tone.

I faced my shoulders to him, hoping my expression would carry my message. _I'm okay. Or at least I think I am. But just in case, I want you at my side. _

"Only if you're sure, Bridge."

There was a throat clearing from behind him, and my face hardened again. Focus. You're here to help. I plucked my notepad and pencil from my duffle and closed the car door. Sherlock came around the Bug holding a pocketknife, several vials, latex gloves on his spidery hands, and a satchel on his shoulders that he passed to John as soon as he got close enough. I led them to the house, ignoring the detective when he scraped off some of the dried blood on the top step into one of his vials.

I also tried to ignore the flashbacks of two nights past. I gnashed my nails into my palms, holding my fists so hard the knuckles appeared like the bones might burst under the skin. Sherlock knelt by sets of blood footprints, one with comparatively larger feet, in the foyer. They ranged all over, disappearing into the bar that separated the kitchen from the sitting room and appearing again on the other side.

He cocked his head to the side, his black curls jostling. "Measuring tape."

John strode over and handed him what he asked from the satchel. The taller man meticulously measured the boot prints and the distance between each one. He started with the noticeably larger set.

"Does a six-one male with longer legs fit your brother?" I nodded.

"He was winning this fight," He informed, before moving onto the smaller set. "The smaller man was losing."

"He's a Marine," John commented, nodding. "That makes sense."

_Of course he was, _I thought, crossing my arms and watching as Sherlock followed the prints around the coffee table. He sampled the glass on the futon beside it and glanced to the windows and elsewhere, checking in all the bathrooms and even climbing the stairs. After a few moments, he returned. "The glass on the floor came from a vase upstairs, I can see the dust differences. But the blood spatter all over the place is wrong from an assault from a vase. It was about to be used as a weapon, but either your brother caught the attack or the intruder subdued him."

"And what does the blood on the floor indicate?" John demanded, and I pointed my back to them, not wanting them to see my face when I hear the words.

"The intruder," My breath came out in a sigh of relief as Sherlock spoke, "was stabbed by a serrated field knife and as the struggle is throughout the residence, I'd say the intruder was injured very sev-"

His voice stopped and suddenly, he crossed the room over to me. I got out of his way and he leaned quite close to the windowsill. He pushed them open, and his eyes widened as a revelation hit him. I panicked under my surface of calm, my heart pounding.

"More men came in through the window."

"How do you know?" John came over, and I felt his breath brush my ear as he peered over my shoulder.

"Faint boot tread, thin layer of mud," Sherlock's tone was superior, "Obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and a few neurons."

The three of us swayed back so he could shut the windows, but the moment we did, I saw four faces in the reflection of the mirror. I whirled around and saw, through the weeds in the glass window above my sink, a pair of eyes. John did too, but I was already in motion, yanking my pistol out of my belt and taking the safety off.

I sprinted out the door to John shouting my name, and found a man all in black gear still half-crouched on the ground, fumbling for a gun larger than mine from his boot. Red exploded across my vision, throwing mine away and tackling him to the ground. At first he tried to use some Brazilian jiu-jitsu on the ground game, but I'd done enough sparring in the military – he _wasn't _getting away that easily.

I shoved one of my thumbs in his eyes, disorienting him while I landed a punch squarely in his nose. I heard a savagely satisfying crack beneath my knuckles, and the man swore, loudly, "_You little b-" _

I felt John's arms coming under mine, dragging me away from him, but the second the man got any room, he landed a punch of his own into my cheek – the metal coverings on his gloves cutting the skin. One of them stuck into my flesh as he pulled away, barbs in the sides of the plate driving deeper and lighting sprays of pain radiated along my nerves in my face.

I grunted, and threw John off with a wild shake of my torso. The man was trying to get away, but I caught his ankle, maneuvering my body to wrap my legs around one of his. His foot in my hands, I used my arms and with a sharp twist, the bones in the ankle shattered between my fingers. He screamed in agony, and I let him go, the man thumping the ground beside him with his pain. He wasn't going _anywhere. _

With blood running down the left side of my face from the gash, I got to my feet. Almost going to have another go and break his other ankle, a hand at my collarbone forced me back. John. "That's _enough_, Bridge."

I stormed past him. No. It wasn't enough. Sherlock came out of the house at last, and said lowly to me so that John wouldn't hear, "We'll interrogate him. Find out what he knows."

Yes. Let's find out what the man knows…But I had better ideas of how to get it out of him than what those two could come up with, I bet.

I glared over my shoulder. John was gauging the damage to the man's ankle as Sherlock cuffed him with a pair of handcuffs he'd taken out of that satchel, I guessed. I rolled my eyes and slammed the door behind me as I got inside.

I went up to the kitchen sink, and covered my mouth against any noise. I pinched the metal still lodged in my cheekbone, and grit my teeth against the barbs. Shutting my eyes tight, I tugged.


	3. The House of Grayson

I apologize most severely, my readers. I uploaded the wrong file for Chapter 3. If you are reading this, you're in new chapter and the problem's been fixed. I'm so, so sorry. Please, enjoy!

Yours, with humility,

Gotham'sProphet

* * *

><p>"My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string<br>The harp I yet can brook to hear;  
>And let thy gentle fingers fling<br>Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.  
>If in this heart a hope be dear,<br>That sound shall charm it forth again:  
>If in these eyes there lurk a tear,<br>'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain."

- Lord Byron, "My Soul is Dark"

* * *

><p>PRIVATE BLOG – THE GEMINI PARABLE<p>

9th July

I had forgotten about her temper. It was the only thing that made her and her brother truly alike; when you got a Grayson twin considerably angry, things were smashed, thrown, broken. This time, it had been this man's ankle. The ankle wasn't shattered completely. Some of the bone was still in one piece, which actually made it worse and the man didn't stop sniveling until a full hour after Bridge had broken the ankle. Her face was still bleeding once Sherlock helped me get the man inside, and the metallic barb was sitting in the kitchen sink like a signpost. She'd taken it out herself.

Sherlock, once we'd sat the intruder in a chair with a gag to keep him quiet, went to searching him for any forms of identification while I tended to Bridge's cheek. She jerked her chin to a cabinet and I found a first aid kit above the stove and opened it on the bar. They were well-stocked; I retrieved some cotton rounds, peroxide, Q-tips, antibiotic cream and bandages from it. The cut wasn't particularly deep, she won't really need a stitching job. The barb hadn't sunk in that much. She sat down in a stool behind the bar, facing me.

I came closer with a cotton round damp with peroxide, and she closed her eyes, bracing herself as I dabbed the round on the cut. The flesh fizzed and bubbled, Bridge sucked in a breath against the stinging I knew she was feeling. But when it was done, she kept her eyes away from mine pointedly.

"Angry with me, are you?" I muttered rhetorically, I knew she was. She tried to move her face away from me, but I cupped a hand on the opposite cheek to hold her there. "Don't move."

Her eyes were dark gray as a storm when she finally looked at me, her mouth half-open and her thin black eyebrows tied together. I only frowned, knowing what she was saying with them. _What was I supposed to do? _

"I know," I said softly, following the line of her torn cheek with a Q-tip and soaking up the peroxide. "Speaking as the partner of the detective handling this case, I can't necessarily congratulate you for attacking a suspect."

She rolled her eyes. I smiled at her. "Speaking as your friend, the asshole deserved it for hitting a woman."

I could tell she was fighting back a smile, closing her eyes as I slid a thin layer of cream over the cut and covered it with a bandage. I thought of the first time I'd healed an injury of hers, that broken wrist back then. She was a good patient, despite Leo threatening to take my head off if my bedside manner to her was as abrasive as other patients. I glanced down to her wrist, resting on the marble-top bar. To the scars.

"The identification card – CIA, how quaint – pertains to one Mr. Gabriel Brooks. A known alias," Sherlock's voice rang out, interrupting my thoughts, "But, as always, I do my homework."

She patted my arm to let her through, and we rejoined Sherlock in the foyer. The detective removed the gag from the criminal, tossing it aside. Bridge posted herself by the front door, crossing her arms tightly. I stood by her, in the corner of the room, while Sherlock informed us as to whom this man really was.

"You are Mr. Dillion Cass, one of Moriarty's men."

The man had been leaning over in his chair most of the time, and as he leant straight up in his chair, his greasy brownish hair was thrown back from his face. Despite his muscular form, he was very pig-faced and his face was in thick planes like a wild boar, beady black eyes shallowly set into the sockets. The one distinguishing and remarkable feature was a circular scar on his right cheek, darker than the rest of his skin and it was the size of a golf ball in diameter. He coughed hoarsely at his name, and then made a wheezing choking sound that I could guess was laughing.

His accent was Scottish and spilled from his mouth like a continuous growl. "I don't care how bright ye are, lad, yer not gettin' anything out of me."

Sherlock lifted one slim finger at Bridge. "What do you know about this woman?"

She set her jaw as Cass raised his pits of eyes at her and shook his head. "I don't know nothin'."

"Double negatives won't lead me to let you go out of pity for your grammatical skills," The detective seemed both bored and disgusted, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. "Or lack thereof."

"I'm not tellin' ya, Skinny," Cass slurred, choking another laugh.

Giving a low noise of annoyance, Bridge stalked up to him and before I could hold her back, stamped the ball of her foot onto the man's broken ankle. He howled in anguish, and once tried to snap at her hands like a wounded dog would a cat that had landed on a bad leg. I yanked her back by her collar, and Cass spat at the floor.

"Oh well done, Bridge," Sherlock mocked, turning back to the man tied up in the chair. "Okay, I'll make a deal. You tell us what you know about her, Moriarty, his location, what he's up to, when you saw him last and where, _anything_ of use…and I'll let you on your merry way."

"Are you mad?" I demanded at my flat mate, still struggling to keep control of Bridge and her just itching to get her hands on Cass again.

Sherlock ignored me, but went on interrogating Cass, who was in a fit of coughs. "You're not afraid of me, I bet."

"As afraid as I am of a groundhog," Cass grumbled, his one eye visible through the curtain of shaggy hair. "Always tryin' to uproot something or someone t'get what he wants." He shook his head again. "I got more time rippin' throats out than ye got so far on the planet."

"And yet you cowered when _she _came at you, didn't you?" Sherlock said, locking a gaze with Dillion Cass. What was he getting at? The other man broke it, to look up at Bridge Grayson with a mix of loathing and something more delicate: fear.

"Of course you did. You were planning to shoot her instead of running away, and aborting the mission which I can only assume was to spy on her. You wanted her dead more than you wanted yourself alive," Now I knew that Sherlock was mad, and the way Bridge was fidgeting, she was getting nervous. "What had you read? What did Moriarty tell you about her? Tell us, or I'll let her have what she wants most, and currently, it's to cause further bodily harm to you."

Cass's pig-like face squeezed together with his grimace. "'Trained beyond a pilot', she was. I was told that she was one of the most decorated pilots in the bloody RAF at the moment, and that she was taught to kill. And that she'd do it without sayin' a word. Like a machine that had no heart."

"And who told you this?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

I'd known Bridge was keeping things out of her story that she told us about Leo's situation, but I knew that if it was important, she'd let us know without a moment's hesitation. However, all of what Cass was saying was no surprise to me. He was wrong about one thing, though. She wasn't a machine, and she had a heart.

Like he hadn't heard my question, he went on, "Moriarty had plans for her, I was told. Big plans. Bigger than you or me."

"Plans? What plans?" Sherlock seemed slightly disappointed.

"But _who _told you?" I repeated, stepping towards him. "Who said this?"

"Who else would know about what she could do?" Cass grinned with yellow teeth the color of egg yolk. "But her own twin brother."

Bridge covered her mouth with her hand, and I shot her a look. He was alive. Leo was alive.

"Leonard Grayson himself told me, so proud he was of his baby sister." Cass laughed through another cough. "Coming from a Marine, I would assume he taught her a few things. Me leg can attest to that. He spoke so highly of his 'Bridgie'," I saw her fists clench at this git's use of her brother's nickname for her. "Even if it was through chains and he was covered in his own blood. He fought like a little blighter, he did. Killed one of me good friends when we came for him."

I took a few paces over to put Bridge behind me. I knew that if this guy kept poking her, she would lash out again. And I know Sherlock wouldn't help me get her off him.

"…One little thing…" He moved his piggy eyes to consulting detective. "Ye got one thing wrong, laddie."

Sherlock was the soul of annoyance. "And," He said hotly, "What exactly did I miss?"

"I wasn't sent here to spy or to get the other Grayson twin."

"Then what are you here for?" My temper was growing too, and it was using up all my self-control not to let Bridge have at him.

"T'deliver a message," Cass panted, "From the man himself. Moriarty…"

"Well, I'm right here," Sherlock said, but the man made an indignant noise, stamping his foot. He reminded me of a child who was neglected attention, and had to be as loud as he could to attract some.

"Not _you, _idiot. Moriarty doesn't just have plans to toy with ye, lad." Dillion Cass snarled, and threw his head back, his hair flailing out of his face. "Message is for her."

Bridge went around me, and gave me a look. She could handle it. She came towards the criminal in the chair, and when he saw her, he said, "Ye may want to get a move on with that ransom, love. He's getting impatient. He wants an answer out of ya soon, whether ya plan t'pay it or not. He says for every day ye leave him waitin', a single lash upon yer brother's back."

Like lightning, Bridge's hand flashed out to crack the back of her hand across his face. Sherlock and I exchanged concerned glances. Cass growled, "I wasn't _done yet, _birdie. There'll be more of his men coming to stir up yer cage, three more to be precise. He's a business man, y'see. Wants it to be at least a temptin' offer, but after the third man…he'll kill yer brother, make ya watch and then he'll claim ya for his collection…Those are his terms, love."

Suddenly, Dillion snapped his face over to the right and there was a sickening crunch sounding from his neck. And his head fell limp, hanging over his lap. Bridge gasped, and shrunk back, almost tumbling over in surprise. Immediately, I knelt beside her and encircled her with an arm to calm her, reaching with my other to just touch two fingers under Cass's jaw. No pulse. Dead.

"My God," I said, defeated. The woman in my arms didn't shake with sobs, just shook in shock. Shook and shook like she was freezing, and she lifted hands wrought with tremors to my shirt, tugging me closer. Sherlock swore under his breath.

"Ransom?" He asked, his accusatory tone directed at Bridge, "You never mentioned ransom. How much?"

"Sherlock, shove it for a second," I barked, standing with her and held her. "Get him out of here."

He looked as if he wanted to demand why out for a second, but after I glanced to her, he mutely nodded. Untying the body first, he dragged the carcass of Dillion Cass by the feet out of the house.

It wasn't until several moments later that she pushed me away gently. My hands still on her shoulders, I searched her face, searched those gray eyes for anything that would give me a clue as to what she was feeling. One could only guess, as many had, what Bridge Grayson was feeling or thinking. Not until she told you. Not before she trusted you with it.

She turned away from me and walked away, disappearing upstairs. I stared up after her. Sherlock had come back in, wiping off his hands on a kitchen towel hanging off the handle for the oven. "Threw him in a stream by the driveway. Well?"

I faced him, "Well what?"

"Did you ask her how much that ransom was?" Sherlock asked, as if it were entirely normal for me to ask that of a woman who'd just watched a man break his own neck.

"No, I didn't." I said, looking him hard in the face as I brought another subject up that'd been bothering me since I woke up on the train. "And another thing, what did you say to her during you two's little smoke break?"

Sherlock's curly hair bristled at my question. He seemed rather uncomfortable, and my gut sank. It wasn't polite, whatever he'd said. I could see it in his face. He said something, but I couldn't quite know for certain if I'd heard him correctly. "What was that?"

"I said that I asked her if she was prepared to see this through to the end," He gave at last, "It may cause her more pain than relief in the long run, and I was wondering if she was prepared for that. And I reminded her that he may already be dead. That's all."

I sighed, truly tired. "Of _course _she's prepared. She wouldn't come to us if she wasn't ready to do what she had to. And she'd know-"

"-if he was dead, I know. She told me as much in the angry note she wrote me." Sherlock admitted, his hands on his bony hips.

Stopping our conversation was the sound of her swift footsteps coming back down the stairs. She was carrying a tan military duffle, and another suitcase that I guessed was filled with her clothes. Bridge stepped forwards to both of us and handed Sherlock a half- piece of paper, before going past us towards the Bug.

He tilted it to me so I could read her note:

_The ransom was five million and I've got a little less than a month to find him. If Cass was right, then Moriarty's end game is big. Really big. Until then, I'm leaving Edinburgh. For a long time until I can return with my brother by my side. In the meantime, I am coming to live in London. We've got work to do, boys. _

* * *

><p>"Thank you again for allowing Bridge to stay with you for the time being, Mrs. Hudson," John was saying, giving the old lady a warm hug.<p>

Mrs. Hudson wrapped an arm around my waist, as she was much smaller than I, and gushed, "I've always wanted a daughter, John, you know that! I don't mind having your friend share my roof." She beamed up at me. "Stay as long as you like, miss."

We'd just finished moving me in with John and Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Martha Hudson. She was the sort of person you'd expect to be kind and compassionate; she was short and sweet as a china teapot, married to her cardigans and sweaters. Although, Mrs. Hudson _was _a widow, and her husband had been executed with the help of the detective (though I'm not sure how this was a good thing, I wasn't told much about it). Thus, she was gifting me her spare bedroom where she used to condemn her husband to sleep when they were fighting.

It was a simple room, just to my liking. Pale green walls, white carpet and a queen-sized bed already made with a quilt she'd put there once she'd gotten the text from John. I'd share the bathroom with the old lady, but I didn't mind. I shared a bathroom with my messy twin brother for twenty-odd years; I think I can handle an old lady who grows marijuana from her windowsill.

And she seemed to be oddly fascinated with my selective mutism. She thought my writing what I wanted to say on sticky notes was adorable, and even thought my hair, short as it was, was like the doll she used to play with as a girl. I was flattered, if a bit embarrassed.

Now, I wrote her one that said I was going to get into something to sleep in, and without fuss, I slipped into my new room. But I could still hear their voices. I opened my clothing suitcase on my bed and listened as I changed. My ears were very good; it was like they were right here in the room with me.

"Poor girl, and you say her brother's been taken?"

John's voice was hesitant, but smooth. "Yeah…her twin, Leonard. Kidnapped. I knew them both in the service."

"What branch was she, John?"

"RAF."

Mrs. Hudson made a noise of approval. "Oh wow…I've always wanted to fly, she's so lucky. But how did the mutism start?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd say she's always had it. It's just a thing between her and her brother. He kind of spoke for her, and she kind of thought for him."

"That's…wow," She repeated, sounding amazed. "Never saying a word…I'd imagine that'd drive Sherlock up the wall." She laughed.

John snorted. "Yeah, it does. I've made him promise to be nice. For all she's been through, I can't imagine anything crueler than him poking at her about it when she won't speak. It's like torture to her, trying to force her to speak."

I thought of what Sherlock had said on the train. _Your brother may already be lost to us. _What does anyone say to that? A cynical snake slithered across my mind. What _could _I possibly say that could make that mechanical man understand my pain? What does he know of pain? My cheek stung as if to remind me it was there.

"I can only imagine…" Mrs. Hudson's voice trailed off, wistful. "That poor, poor girl."

By that time, I'd gotten into a pair of gray sweatpants and a black tank top with thicker straps. Leaving my short boyish hair down around my eyes, I stepped out into the kitchen again with my notepad and pen clutched to my chest. I saw that I was running low on paper already, I'd have to make a run to the store. I wondered where that was.

John was halfway out the door, but when I came in, he leaned back in.

"How's the cheek?" John questioned, striding to me. I bared my cheek and he gently peeled a corner of the bandage up to see underneath. "Oh, it's on its way. You'll be fine."

"I'm off to bed," He told me, and as he made his way to the door, Mrs. Hudson glanced between us with a small smile on her face. John asked one last question, "You have my number, right?"

I did; I'd gotten it back in the service shortly after my wrist had healed up, but as I preferred to write to him, we'd never texted before Leo was kidnapped. Although, as I understand it, Leo did text John. I nodded to him.

"Good," John nodded back, before opening Mrs. Hudson's door and throwing over his shoulder awkwardly, "Er, text me if you need anything."

"Oh she will, and I'll let you know if anything happens," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the tea kettle off the stove. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight Mrs. Hudson, Bridge."

And he shut the door. I sat down at the table with my notepad, and the old lady brought over the tea and two cups, pouring with practiced grace. I smiled at her as a thank you, and she got into the wooden armchair across from me. She lifted her teacup, "To new beginnings, yes?"

I scribbled in the margin, turning it around for her. _To new beginnings. _

As carefully as we could, we clinked teacups and drank the first sips. The taste was so rich! Leo wasn't much of a tea drinker, but this woman's tea was divine. When I told her so on the notepad, she giggled. "I'll have to make it more often!"

She reached for the counter behind her for the remote. I assumed it was to the television set on the entertainment stand on the opposite side of the room, and it was, Mrs. Hudson flicking it on. "Do you watch soap opera, dear?"

_Not much. I could never really follow the storylines. _I wrote, and she waved at it.

"Oh tush, I'll fill you in!" She said, and I leaned forward eagerly, finding how easy it was to get along with this old lady.

Despite everything that's happened these past few days, I appreciated this easygoing arrangement. And in the days ahead, I found that this right here with Mrs. Hudson was the calm I could return to. I could return here, drink tea with her and watch soaps with her. My own mother had been taken from me, and although no one could ever replace her, Mrs. Hudson offered familiar warmth that's been gone for more than a decade.

Later, when I'd resigned to bed and was in the seclusion of my new bedroom, I curled up in the warm blankets with something I'd taken from my house. A leather-bound picture album. I didn't open it, but held it to my chest and waited.

I was astonished; it was as if I'd forgotten how to cry. I was a master of repressing emotions, and the closest I'd gotten to crying is when I met John outside this building yesterday…Why can't I _cry?_

Without thinking, I raised a hand and tore the bandage off my cheek, before I drove my fingernails into the healing flesh. Burning pain made the tears appear, and at last, I released my cut. I covered my mouth with a blood-covered hand as I cried until my eyes were raw and my cheek washed clean with the salt of my tears.

Diary, I really hope I can bring Leonard home safe and sound. Because if I don't, the heartbreak, the pain and grief…I fear it just might kill me.

* * *

><p>John returned to he and Sherlock's flat with aching feet and a weary mind, his arms sagging as he hung his jacket on the hook by the door. In the sitting room, Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa in his navy blue evening robe, lounge pants and a purple short-sleeved shirt. His eyes were closed, but his chest, John knew, was moving too fast for REM sleep.<p>

"Well, she's all moved in," John said, attempting to make conversation as he trudged into the kitchen for a glass of water. "I suppose we ought to get some rest soon to solve this case…"

"John, I know what you're thinking," Sherlock muttered through his lips. "We aren't involving him."

"And why not?" John inquired, pausing just as he was about to take a sip of his water. He knew just what the other man was talking about, or rather, who. "Mycroft said it himself that Moriarty's been contacting him, being persistent- maybe he would have an idea on how to work with the situation. Maybe even know where he is."

The consulting detective's rich blue eyes opened and he stood up in a rush, narrowing them at his shorter friend. "You know why."

"Because of your ridiculous animosity? Sibling rivalry?" John's sarcasm was impossible to miss, "Consider it a favor to me."

"This entire case is a favor to you," Sherlock reminded him harshly, picking up the satchel they'd used today and going into the kitchen, walking a bit harder in the heels than normal.

Or at least its original purpose was a kitchen. These days, it wasn't so much a kitchen as it was a chemistry lab. All manners of glass flasks, graduated cylinders and labeled vials and bottles laid all over the small table, barely a hairsbreadth away from one another.

"Oh right," John scoffed, "Go on, act as if the word 'Moriarty' wasn't what hooked you. You've been digging into his networks for several months now, and this is the first time you've had a lead on what he could be after."

"Ah yes, the mute who isn't an anarchist and yet insists on breaking the ankles of government agents," Sherlock quipped, inspecting a test tube fizzling above a Bunsen burner with little particular interest. "Even if it was an alias."

The doctor shot him a dry look from across the chemistry lab. "She doesn't need this, you know. A madman with a large bank account is after her, has kidnapped her brother, comes to us for help in a time of need and you're being an ass to her."

"If you recall, John," His flat mate produced a sealed vial from the satchel, and squinted as he observed the reddish contents. John knew that it was taken from the red fan of blood on Bridge's porch back in Scotland. He gestured between them, indicating a unit, "She's keeping things from us. From both of us and we both know it. Withholding information doesn't grant anyone favors."

"I can contact Mycroft on my own, you know," John threatened firmly, glaring at Sherlock.

To that, the man in the chemistry goggles with the vial in his hand looked up from the blood to the doctor coldly. "You wouldn't _dare_."

"Try me." The other man said, not backing down at first. But after a long staring contest, John said at last, "Fine. But if this spirals out of control, Sherlock, so help me God." His gaze intensified, "If Bridge gets hurt during this crusade, if she gets hurt once…or if either of us got hurt…"

John inhaled slowly, and then finished, walking away towards his bedroom, "I'm calling Mycroft whether you like it or not."

Sherlock was left in silence; he had noticed a change in John since Bridge had gotten here. He was quicker to anger, faster to ensure her well-being ahead of his own. He'd raced after her when she'd seen Dillion Cass through the window, and was the one to keep her from doing something she'd regret. It puzzled him so.

John had had several lady friends while they'd lived together in this flat, but not once had he shown genuine concern and displays of protection such as when he'd held her in that foyer. He'd saved Sarah's life during the case of the Blind Banker, but Sherlock had already examined it out of boredom…That was being noble.

The whole business of emotional attachment was not lost to him in its theory, though. And if it were to be correct, John was deep in it.

The detective put down the vial, and removed his goggles. Sherlock thought back to his own conversation on the train with Bridge Grayson. They'd smoked together, a rare thing for him to share with anyone. He rarely smoked _with _people. Few had ever done so, typically it was just him smoking and everyone else being secretly disgusted by him; his brother, and a client he'd had a while ago to name a couple. Bridge didn't seem repulsed by it, nor did she encourage him to stop. Like she understood that it was a necessary evil to complete, that there were worse things. And the topics of conversation through her paper and his voice…her twin, Leonard Grayson. His fate. He remembered how defensive, temperamental she became when he mentioned what the possibilities could be. Sherlock had told her about the nature of criminals, being like cancers cells consuming the host. Her words had puzzled him regarding that, too. _Most criminals aren't Moriarty. _

Again, like she fully understood what sort of creature Moriarty was. How could she? And yet, he picked up on this aura about her. One of pure experience, and downplayed nostalgia. She _did _know. She _did _understand.

Sherlock shook his head, ridding himself of these burdening thoughts. Whoever Bridge Grayson really was beneath the composure, beneath the withheld information and beneath the mutism, he'd find out sooner or later.

It was only a matter of time.


	4. Beneath the Rifted Stone

"All look and likeness caught from earth

All accident of kin and birth,

Had pass'd away. There was no trace

Of aught on that illumined face,

Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone

But of one spirit all her own ;-

She, she herself, and only she,

Shone through her body visibly."

- Samuel Coleridge, "Phantom"

* * *

><p>"'The Gemini Parable'? And why does it say 'draft'?"<p>

John jumped nearly three feet out of his seat at Sherlock's sudden voice behind him, scowling over the smaller man's shoulder. He'd been updating his blog draft about the case, what'd they'd gotten out of Dillion Cass and everything else. The ransom, the suspicion that their new friend was keeping more from them and speculations as to what that might be. Another death, something she'd done that she wasn't proud of, a deal – could be any number of things. What it truly was, neither man knew.

"I don't have an eidetic memory like you do," John reminded him shortly, trying to slow his heart rate after being startled. "We normal people have to make notes of things that happen, as they happen."

"Sounds exhausting," His flatmate said dismissively, drinking from his evening tea. John knew he should've heard the kettle. He checked his watch. Nearly seven in the afternoon.

Or was it that he was so absorbed in what he was doing with the blog to notice? John sighed. It had been a long day. It was now the twelfth of July, and both he and Sherlock had been tight to work trying to piece together Moriarty's plans. The detective was dissecting the crime scene back in Peebles. His partner going between picking Bridge's brain when something came up in the search, keeping Sherlock running well enough to work, and helping Bridge set up 221C, another flat in Mrs. Hudson's building.

Bridge had been hard at work renovating and bringing it back to being live-able. John knew she hated relying on people, as much as she and Mrs. Hudson had taken to one another, she couldn't live off another person forever and she knew it. She wanted to fend for herself on her own money, under her own roof that she was paying for. It hadn't needed much; just to get rid of the black mold seeping in, to get some new furniture, fix the broken windows, and give the walls some new paint.

_It was just like Bridge_, John had thought upon hearing what her plans were for the new flat. He knew that she secretly hated waiting. Truly and sincerely hated it. And it was the one thing about that John likened to Sherlock about her. When they both were forced to wait, they needed work. Problems. Something to occupy the mind until it was put to use. She was waiting for news or communiqué from Moriarty or information about the crime scene from the detective, so she was renovating a flat to live in. Sherlock had to wait between cases and it drove him mad to just sit there without things to do, so he'd perform all manners of experiments and calculations just to save himself from utter boredom. At least that was the excuse he gave.

Today had been the last day of the refurbishing, and Bridge had left him a note on her door this morning to take the day off. She and Mrs. Hudson were going to go out and get some paintings to 'dress up the place'. John remembered how much she loved art, his old friend. Couldn't draw to save her life, but she loved paintings.

Three knocks on the door to their flat broke John of his reverie, and noticing that the man holding a bottle labeled as formaldehyde hadn't shown any sign that he'd heard it, rose to answer it. He opened the door. A pale hand emerged from the dark of the hall, grasped the front of his shirt, and tugged him down the stairs. John struggled for a few seconds, about to yell before a note was shoved into his hands. The light streaming in from Mrs. Hudson's flat allowed him to see that it simply read: _Follow._

"You could've just texted, you know," He said, the pilot shrugging as means of a reply. Her hands were in front of her, and he couldn't see what she had in them, but after a moment, she slid them into her jacket pockets.

His phone buzzed in his jeans, and John fished it out, laughing a bit at the ID. He looked up to step down from the building onto Baker Street, the dim lamp lights and the noise as familiar to him as his own voice now. There were two texts…one from Sherlock and one from Bridge. He read her text:

**Where's the fun in that? In case you're wondering, my writing hand hurts from working and this is much easier.**

"Ah," John glanced at Bridge in the low light, walking a bit faster to fall into step alongside her, "And where are we going, might I ask?"

She texted him again, and he kept his phone out to read it as it flashed onto his screen.

**To the liquor store. We're about to have our first nightcap in my flat. The first of many, I hope.**

John was about to say something, but stopped when he heard her begin whistling. For her to make any sort of sound was a rare sight to behold, and he wouldn't interrupt it. A somber smile spreading across his face, he offered his arm to her.

It wasn't like a nobleman holding his arm out to win the affections of a giggling girl he was courting. This was more a pair of old friends leaning on each other, growing closer and letting the other know that it was perfectly okay to admit you needed someone.

And it was for that reason that she looped her arm around his, feeling his warmth as she continued whistling. He didn't recognize it, but it was strangely jazzy and upbeat, a stark contrast to Bridge herself. He didn't argue, though.

His smile was mirrored by the slight upturn of her lips, and as he picked up on her tune, he found himself whistling too.

* * *

><p>"Here we are then, eh?" John was saying as Bridge opened the door to her flat, and he gazed around with a solid look of approval on his face. "Now this is nice…"<p>

He had seen it yesterday after the painting was done: the deep blue walls in the sitting room and bath, and the dark gray in the kitchen. However, this was just fantastic to look at. The furniture no longer had the white sheets thrown over them, and the comfortable white claw-footed couch that curved up like the petals of a flower now had a few blue throw pillows on it to match the walls. Along the windows were beige vintage drapes that went straight down to the floor, pooling on the maple wood. On one of the windowsills was a ceramic pot, and erupting through it in a fountain of yellow were sunflowers, Bridge's favorites. The flowers alone brought a light to the room that the already-present lamplight in the corner didn't have a hope of bringing.

John grinned, making an idle joke as he glimpsed her face out of the corner of his eye. "I don't suppose you'd want a flat mate already…?"

Bridge plucked up a dry-erase whiteboard from a stand by the door, as if she had prepared it, and wrote with a slim black marker. _You haven't even looked at the paintings yet._

He raised his eyebrows and took another look around, puzzled. The walls were featureless, and bare, the richness of the color making his eyes attach to them like flies to tape. "I don't see…"

She grabbed his hand and forcibly led him to another part of the flat, her whiteboard in her other hand and the case of beers in his. It wasn't the bedroom or the bathroom, and distantly in his head, John recalled Mrs. Hudson saying that this flat had an extra room due to more space in the lot. Before she lead him in, though, he watched as she scrawled a single word hurriedly on the whiteboard and gave it to him to hold while she pushed the door open.

_Library._

Indeed it was. She'd left this room white, but John could barely see it, as nearly every wall was cloaked in black bookshelf except one. The one for the paintings. There were four of them in all, and they were beautiful. John hadn't a clue what style they were in, he had little knowledge on the subject, but he did know that they were beautiful. Swirls of blue and green and yellow all over, and only two held known shapes, the others were abstract. One of the works was of what he had just seen: sunflowers with their vibrancy in a simple still-life. He tore his eyes away from the paintings to see the pair of armchairs in the center of the room separated with a wooden coffee table, meant for reading and observing, and the only light here was by means of a ceiling fixture and a small lamp behind one of the leather armchairs, shining over the shoulder. He could imagine why that would be there: even though the shelves were bare, John knew Bridge was an avid reader and there would be books packed in here by the end of the week.

They sat down across from each other, and John set the beers down in front of him, tearing the case open. He was giving her one along with her whiteboard as she crossed her legs. He chuckled as she popped hers open on the corner of her coffee table, and asked with a half-smile, "Is that why you bought it?"

Bridge flashed a sheepish look, and he said in earnest, "Really, Bridge. This place is astonishing. I almost wish Sherlock would've joined us."

The pink dusting about her cheeks was modesty at best, but she still wrote him a quick reply to that last part.

_Be careful what you wish for, John._

"Well," He preambled, screwing the top off his beer and lifted it in a toast, "To Leonard's safe return…may he be with us again soon."

And all the playfulness and light-heartedness fled her eyes like water in a bathtub when the plug's been pulled. John instantly regretted it, and as they clinked bottles in silence, then drank…he found himself wanting to speak on the subject. He knew what she must be thinking. She gently laid her beer on the table and gazed off into a painting. That one was of a whirlpool consuming a pond of gray, blue and green. It seemed to consume her, too. Just past her half-open lips, John could see her tongue moving and he'd read patient's lips long enough to know what she was doing. She was repeating words silently inside her mouth. The same two.

Four days. Four days. Four days.

It's been four days since Leonard was kidnapped. _For every day you leave him waiting, a single lash upon your brother's back. _He remembered what Dillion Cass had said. There would be a fourth lash today.

"Bridgette."

He was the second of two people to ever say her full first name, the first being her twin. John only used it to get her attention, and it worked, she met his eyes. "I know you're hurting the longer it takes." He attempted humor against his better judgment. "I'm a doctor. I'm sort of the expert on pain."

She furrowed her brows, and was reaching for her whiteboard again, but John froze her mid-way with his words. "Listen…"

She stayed like that, hunched over with her forearms on her knees and her top jacket buckle glimmering metallically across her throat like a warning. Bridge only looked up at him through the short hair that framed her pixie-like face with thick black tufts of hair as thin as feathers, and with storm gray eyes. John met them with his hazel ones, his hair the color of salt and sand mixed together ruffled as one of his healer's hands ran through them.

"I understand," He said, though his voice seemed suspended as if he were talking to no one. As if she were a painting herself, and it was supported by how statuesque and still she was as he kept talking. "Your brother means the absolute world to you, more than me and more than the RAF, more than anything…more than air."

He stopped himself. "Let me start over…I realize though we've known each other for a while now, I hardly know anything about you. But…here's what I do know. I know you have a twin brother whom you love dearly. I know you're a very well-trained pilot. I know you like books and old rock music. I know you love words, the smell when it rains, whistling when you walk, and how wind feels going through your hair. I know you don't speak, and that forcing you to is futile and cruel to do."

Bridge's lips twisted, and he could sense her growing restless, wanting him to get to his point. So he did.

"What I'm trying to say is that I know what sort of person you are when you're with me, and I know who you've been in the military, when Leonard was there. But…" I sighed, scolding myself for still not getting it to come out right. "But I don't know what sort of person you'll be without Leonard. Or who you were before the Air Force. Or who you are when you're alone."

Her eyes narrowed, and her hands curled slowly into fists. The message was clear. John had to watch what he was about to say. He didn't want to anger her, but this was something he had to know.

"What's the part you're leaving out?"

Her face blanked, and she closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. John's guilt loaded his gut then, wishing he didn't ask at all. The hand around her beer tightened, and she slowly put it down on the table and picked up her whiteboard. She gripped it tightly as she put it on her lap and drew words with her marker, pressing harder. When Bridge turned it around, the words and the jaggedness and largeness of them showed just how angry she was beneath her thin veil of composure.

_DID SHERLOCK PUT YOU UP TO THIS?_

He knew there wasn't much point to lying. "Sherlock sent me a text shortly after we left…he thinks whatever you're hiding from us may be the key to finding Moriarty. Bridge," She looked at him then, her eyes a much stormier gray now, darker. "You _know _I would never ask this of you if it wasn't important. And I believe Sherlock, I think whatever you've got will help us."

She covered her face with her hands, and John whispered, desperate, "Please, Bridge…just talk to me."

At the word, Bridge glared at him. But as they held this gaze, her eyes softened gradually. She snatched the whiteboard again, writing quickly. John watched with worry as it took up half the board before she set it down on the table again, pushing it towards him. He bit his lip as he read.

_Fine. I'll tell you. But not all of this goes to the detective. Just the important things. I trust YOU with this. Don't make me regret it._

_Leo and my parents were murdered almost ten months before our eighteenth birthday and a lot of our money was taken in the process. My brother and I had no home, what I showed you in Scotland was the house we bought after we got out. A week after they were killed, I alone was approached by a man who said he knew our parents. I don't think I have to tell you who that ended up being. He offered me a deal he knew I wouldn't refuse. I was to take the money he gave me, recruitment papers for the service, and a bus ticket…and in return, years down the line, if he ever needed the soldiers we would undoubtedly become, we were to join his side and fight for him. I didn't refuse, we needed help. And John, it was the worst decision I ever made._

He had a hand over his mouth when he finished, and when he looked at her, her knees were drawn up to her chest and her glittering eyes were just visible above them. John was in shock. He would like to think that he wouldn't have made the same decision, but as he thought about it, he wondered. Without thinking, he stood up from his chair and rounded the table. John grabbed her hands and yanked her up to stand with him, then wrapped both arms around her in a hug.

Bridge tensed at first at this, before returning it with her face pressed to his neck. He said quietly, in her ear, "I'll only tell him about what Moriarty wanted in the deal, but I won't tell him what you wanted…and I won't tell him your parents were…yeah. He doesn't need to know. It'll stay between you and me."

_You and me. _Her hands held him tighter to her at those words…and they repeated in her head, in a broken record. Over and over. _You and me. You and me. _ He was her best friend, and as they let go, she couldn't stop herself from reaching up on her toes. Her lips brushed his cheek and as she leaned back, both of his cheeks reddened.

"What was that?"

She shrugged, masking her temporary lapse of self-control and ignoring the pink rising to the tops of her ears. She bent over to get their beers and her whiteboard, before leading him back to the sitting room.

* * *

><p>"And do you remember that one time? That git Phil was taking a shower because he was covered in sand and dust and Leo had this idea to throw ice in?" John giggled, his fourth beer in his hand and his face and nose were red. "And you and me were just outside the hall laughing our asses off, and he threw the ice in his shower and Phil screeched like a little girl! Hee-<em>heeee<em>, that was great!"

Bridge's teeth were shining in her wide grin, tilting her drink back and letting the last dribble of beer sail down her throat. The taste was smooth, a bit too smooth for her liking, she liked her beers with a kick. Her legs were thrown over an arm of the claw-footed couch and her torso was laid out in the seat, her eyes full of mirth as she looked over at him from the white base. Her hair splayed like black feathers under her head.

"Dear God that was funny," John said, finishing his bottle off too. She'd never seen him so giddy. He reached down into the case for another one, and frowned, lifting it up to find it empty. He reminded her of a very sad sandy puppy whose hands were too large for the rest of him. He always has, but this was one of those times that it was more pronounced.

He said, throwing it unceremoniously over his shoulder, "All out."

John slumped down into his seat, and closed his eyes. Bridge, with a small hiccup, wriggled out of her seat and collected their empty bottles with a slight teetering in her usually swift gait. She wasn't as drunk as John was, even though she'd drunk nearly as much as he had. Scottish blood was probably the reason for that.

As she was walking back, she heard the soft sounds of sleep coming from her friend. He'd fallen asleep, and in a deep one, too. She poked at him to wake, but he wouldn't, just brought his legs up into a little ball in the seat of the armchair. Her lips pursed; the prospect of carrying him up the stairs to 221B seemed somewhat difficult. She rubbed the back of her neck as she fished out her phone, having to concentrate to see the keys.

She'd gotten Sherlock's number through John, and had to admit, it made her nervous to think of talking to him. What he'd said on the train still unsettled her.

**Mayday, need your hlep.**

_Hlep? _She'd already sent it when she realized her mistake, and sighed. Maybe she was drunker than she thought. A ringtone that sounded like church bells alerted her to his reply.

**Help*.**

**SH**

She tapped through screens until she got to her camera, and snapped a photo of John sleeping, attaching it to a message.

**I need another set of hands.**

He seemed to be waiting with his messages open, because his answer was fast.

**Why don't you let him there? I'm engaged in evaluating samples from your home. I'm busy.**

**SH**

She rolled her eyes, before she had an idea. She knew what would get him here.

**He has the information you've been badgering me about. Assist me, and he'll be a bit more lenient with you in the future with your poking and prodding. Maybe I will, too.**

Not a moment after she sent it, there was a knocking at her door. Startled, she dropped her phone and gasped quietly as she saw that a huge crack had formed in it. Trying to cover her ears against the augmented noise of the knocks, she trudged across the room to open the door wincing.

"Next time, mention the important part first." Sherlock muttered forcefully, moving past her in a swish of black button-down and curly hair. He glanced around, finding the familiar pile of blonde-gray hair and going over to John.

Bridge came on his other side, as they put John's short arms around their shoulders and began to guide him out of the room. The stairs were a struggle in and of itself; it was narrow and although Sherlock and Bridge were both very slender, three of them had to fit in through. With her leading and them ascending in a slant, they were able to get up to 221B with little frustration and hassle. To their surprise, the doctor didn't wake.

The strong ammonia smell lurched in through Bridge's nostrils and yanked at her brain as they entered John and Sherlock's flat. Through her slightly drunken nerves, that smell yanked her into clarity. She almost dropped her friend to cover her nose, but fought it once they got to John's room, which smelled of warm spices like he did. Silently, they got him to his small twin-sized bed. She removed his shoes and the detective drew back the covers. Together, they tucked in their best friend and left him to mumble nonsense and sleep.

As they got back into the kitchen that smelled of death, Bridge finally could clamp her hand over her nose. Sherlock seemed unfazed, but once he saw her discomfort, he paused in putting his goggles back on. Something flickered in those crystal blue eyes of his, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it. _Your brother may already be lost to us. _She heard his voice, as if he'd spoken the words again now, and her expression hardened.

But when she heard him as she went to leave, it still put her in a dead stop. It wasn't wistful, it wasn't desperate, or remorseful in any way. It was just his voice, saying her name.

"Bridge…"

She only turned her head to him. His eyes were flitting between John's door and her, his hands behind his back but she could see the fabric of his shirt twitch with movement. He was fumbling with his fingers, as if uncertain.

"This beaker must be left simmer for another thirty minutes." He reported, and her eyebrows rose.

She had little to no knowledge of chemistry, save for the Mentos and Diet Coke reaction because her brother had performed it with hilarious results when they were eleven. Bridge hadn't a clue what the beaker with the blue liquid bubbling inside it was for.

"I'd like a word with you," Sherlock explained, and plucked a notepad from his work station, tearing off the first four pages and throwing it to her. She caught it in midair, staring at it suspiciously.

He was grabbing something else from the fireplace mantel, before placing it in his back pocket. Sherlock breezed past her and was about to go out through the door of 221B when he said, if a bit impatiently, "What are you standing there for? Come along. To the roof."

* * *

><p>I remembered this one night in particular from Afghanistan. It was a warm night, practically every night in the Middle East was, but this one was different. The stars seemed brighter, like they had waited all day and gathered their strength just for someone on the ground to look up and notice them. I climbed into the cockpit of my aircraft that night, the glass shielding my from the wind as I stargazed until the golden rays of morning faded the rest of the sky.<p>

As I got onto the rooftop after Sherlock, the stars were just as bright as they were halfway round the world a year ago. A breath in astonishment escaped my lips as my neck craned up.

"I know," A deep voice from in front of me agreed, as if reading my thoughts. The prospect of which frightened me, and as I saw him, my eyes leaving the sky, he held something out to me. "Consider this a gift."

I couldn't see what it was, it was too dark. The lights of Baker Street were choked by the raised ledge, and all I could see of Sherlock was his silhouette, his curls breaking up the streetlight around his head. I gingerly reached out blindly, and my fingertips met his warm fingers holding a very thin cylinder. A cigarette. He was returning the favor for the smoke on the train.

Sherlock's hands left mine for a second, and there was a clicking sound, sparks hurling light through the dark. They illuminated his face in strobes, his unreadable eyes photographed in fleeting blinks of sparks. At last, the flame caught and he held the lighter for me. I leant in and he cupped his hands against the wind as I lit the end of my cigarette. I glanced at him as I did, and all I saw was the curve of his lips. A smile in the dark.

I became more aware of his closeness as he lit his. I felt the heat coming off him, how his careful fingers were with flame and how its reddish gold danced along the planes of his face. How he smelled, too. The louder scent was of chemicals like burned sugar that clung to his clothes, but as he had leant close, an undertone of lemon soap revealed itself as the breeze blew by his hair and past my nose.

"I didn't think it would be so dark - wait-" Sherlock's voice was distant for a moment before I heard him flick a switch, and a light bulb above me flipped on. I could see him clearly now.

He waited as I opened his notebook and I fished a pen out of my pocket. The same four words I'd asked him in my head for the entire time I'd known him were all I wrote.

_What do you want?_

Smoke billowed from his mouth as he spoke, "I hope to apologize. For what I said on the train. It was cruel of me... "

I didn't see that coming. I hadn't expected an apology, I expected another elaborate piece meant to be thought-provoking. But it didn't change my final verdict on what he'd said. His words were cruel and a part of me hurt to think they were true...As if my hands betrayed my mind, they disclosed what I really felt and believed, something I almost never do.

_Don't. You don't need to. As much as what you said brought me pain, at the time it was what I needed to hear. And you were right. I shouldn't hold out too much hope and it was naive of me to do so. I should know the usual fates of prisoners of war. Thank you. _

Through the beer buzzing through my veins, I saw Sherlock's shock measured in how long he stood there staring at me after he'd looked up from the paper. I continued to smoke, tapping ash onto the roof. Breaking his steely gaze, Sherlock jerked his hand and gave a hiss of pain, the cigarette falling from his fingers onto the concrete. He blew on his hand, grimacing. As he lowered his other hand, I saw the shiny red blister that'd formed on his pointer and middle fingers. Had he really been standing there that long and not even notice?

When I stepped forward to see if he would need salve, he waved me off and shied back from me. "Only burned myself, don't worry."

I sighed, holding my hands up like a defeated criminal surrendering to a police officer. Sherlock ignored that, questioning me, "Never mind that – did you just thank me?"

Being a mute, people had a knack for pointing out the rather obvious around me, and I would think that he'd grown tired of it too being a detective, but alas, here he was doing it…I nodded yes, stomping my finished smoke out. His shock only furthered, stumped by something pertaining to me.

"I was wrong." He said, exasperated. He was still moving away from me, as if I were an alien or anomaly that the laws of physics didn't allow. But it wasn't fear I saw in his eyes, it was fascination. Unrelenting fascination.

"Completely and totally wrong. That's never happened before, and I suspect that you're drunk enough to forget it come morning."

_It's a possibility_, I thought and I was growing quite irritated, crossing my arms. _What? Wrong about what? What is he babbling about? Why is he looking at me like that?_

"My deductions," He explained, and he gushed out the words like a continuous stream, like he couldn't hold them in any longer. "You've shot every single one of them down with two words. Every thing I guessed at, every thing I knew about your personality…you have ruined it….with 'thank you'."

I was frozen. Frozen by an invisible force I had no comprehension of being there. I stood, and watched as Sherlock tore everything apart. Everything I'd worked to make him think, make him believe so as to protect myself. My oldest trick. My vital rule. My failsafe.

"When I first met you, I thought you ignorant. You didn't speak because the rest of the world wasn't worthy of your words. John told me to stop it. 'Stop it Sherlock, be nice', he said. He said it because I thought you incompetent, I thought you rude, I thought you as the sum of everything I expel away from me," Sherlock shook his head, his epiphany fresh and flowing in his mind. I could tell from how his voice seemed so pushed, like he was thinking up everything he was saying as it was on its way out of his mouth. "Stupidity, incompetence, and passiveness. But…I think I realized it when you wrote to me on the train to Scotland…"

Sherlock advanced to my petrified body, his hands cupping my shoulders and shushed me, his voice unnervingly soft. "Don't be afraid, Bridge. You won't remember a word of this, I know it. The alcohol will burn the memories from your brain…That is the reason why I choose to say this now. You are the complete opposite, and John was right. He was right, how could I not notice?"

He shook his head again, scolding himself quietly with a smile upon his face. "This could be the past hour inhaling ammonia speaking, but…I think I've got it worked out. You don't speak…not because the world isn't worthy of your words. But because you don't feel your words are worthy for the world."

My gasp was audible, and his eyes lit up. I was seriously slipping now, and my nerves were live wires with danger.

"You're intelligent, modest, and you're a woman of action," Sherlock said lowly, and let me go. "Integrity, kindness…You understand balance and cause and effect. I appreciate that. Just as I appreciate it of John."

"He told me to look again and look hard at you. And I did. And oh, the colors I saw. I've seen more than I ever have in anyone. And I saw proof of a single fact. A fact that I've never seen before apart from my own reflection or John..."

I was feeling light-headed, my mind swimming as he said the last, the final three words. They may as well have been passing dreams, because my knees came out from under me, and my eyes rolled back into my head, strong hands catching me before I hit the ground. But his words stayed in my head like a mantra, his voice meandering in a river through my thoughts like music.

"You …are …_brilliant._"

* * *

><p>I hope you all enjoyed that, this fanfiction's gonna pick up in speed next chapter and we'll get to some of the bigger stuff! Don't forget to review! Let me know what you think!<p>

Yours,

G.P.


	5. A Most Stormy Life

"From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow - I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone -

And all I lov'd - I lov'd alone -

Then - in my childhood - in the dawn

Of a most stormy life - was drawn"

- Edgar Allen Poe, "Alone"

* * *

><p><strong>Baker Street, 13<strong>**th**** of July, 7: 43 A.M.**

Sherlock hadn't gotten sleep that night. He sat and watched over an intoxicated, sleeping John from an old wooden chair that's been in 221B longer than they had. He'd seen far too many - even those without an alcohol addiction - expire of choking on their own vomit, and as John had a habit of sleeping on his back, Sherlock worried to distract himself.

He forced himself not to think of her at first, but the fleeting moments he did, Bridge's incredulous face during his confession on the roof embedded into his thoughts. In the indiscernible hours of the morning, where time seemed to blur, Sherlock thought of why he told her what he did. He'd originally dragged her up there to apologize for what he'd said on the train, for John's sake.

But why tell her that he had misjudged her? Why admit defeat and call her what he truly discovered her to be? Why declare her brilliant? Sherlock had hastily thought of using her drunkenness as means of an excuse, though he knew that excuses were for the incompetent.

In honesty, he found Bridge to be quite infuriating all in all. She was a riddle, which he hated. Underneath, though one had to look hard, Sherlock couldn't help himself from thinking her fascinating. Fascinating in the way stars were, like silent guardians that inspired tales and music but at the same time, the light left in those stars are only ghosts. For the star died before its light could reach the earth, and all one saw was the hollow representation.

Sherlock paused on that metaphor for a grim minute and remembered a softer time. When he'd first learned that starlight was an after effect as a boy, his anger led him to burn the book and never pursue astronomy again. He repulsed from it every chance he could. John had made fun of him before about never learning that the earth revolves around the sun. Sherlock had dismissed as unimportance, but it was the stars he took issue with, not the planets. They were beautiful, but they were also sad.

It became a starlight curse, and just like that, every time a case came upon his doorstep...people wondered why he seems so morbid and bleak on the job. Because as the cases came in to be observed and solved, the people were already dead like the stars he loved as a child. Just as the stars have charts, so did the people.

Sherlock didn't "get off" on cases as some at Scotland Yard believed. He only wanted to see the stars.

So it always frightened him in the slightest of ways, looking at Bridge. Because as a star does, she burned with this light that was unmistakable and rare and luminous, but the moment he heard - or rather, read - her story in her own words, he realized how honestly broken she was without her voice and without her brother. Even though she spoke of them as the same thing. Sherlock, in this, saw something a little too familiar.

He leaned forward in his chair, the wood creaking as he did, and rested his forearms on his knees, scolding himself for drifting off in his ponderings. _Stupid..._

Catching his attention were his friend's pearly eyelids fluttering, John's hands up to scrub at his eyes. His eyes were veined with red, and his movements dallied with the after effects of alcohol. When he saw Sherlock, he jolted as if being woken up to an octopus flailing about at the end of his bed. "Jesus, were you watching me sleep?"

"I prefer the phrase 'observing breathing patterns and preventing death in the form of drowning in one's own vomit' but I won't question your word choice- you aren't at your maximum capacity for cognitive function," Sherlock noted, but there was no defensiveness in him, only a thin disappointment.

John blinked a few times, clearing his vision before he stared wide-eyed, as if remembering something. "Did Bridge-"

"-carry you? Not alone, she summoned me and we hauled you up together," He informed mechanically.

"Did she make it back alright?"

Sherlock hesitated for half a second. After she'd fainted on the roof, he'd had little choice but to carry her back to her apartment, to the claw-footed couch. He deduced days ago that she regularly slept on her belly from way her face always was red on one side, as if she'd pressed her face to something for a time. So he set her down accordingly, and was distantly relieved that he wouldn't have to worry about her as he had John. He was still working out if it had been alcohol or what he'd said that had shocked her so badly, but that wasn't important anymore.

"If you imply that I left her to sleep on the stairs in a heap, thank you for your confidence," Sherlock's sarcasm was thick and cool as granite. He rose to his feet, waving his hand at John. "Get up, we need to get to-"

He was cut off by John suddenly clamping a hand over his mouth and dashing out of bed, to the bathroom. The sounds of him evacuating his stomach set off a strange sympathetic twisting in Sherlock's gut as he followed and leant against the frame of the door. The doctor had himself crouched over the toilet seat, clutching his torso.

The taller man made a face. "And this is your reward for befriending a Scot, John."

"Shut up." The doctor heaved and gagged.

"Once you're finished, we head to the lab. We've tests to do. The samples from Miss Grayson's porch has hit an interesting development. I think there may be something in the intruder's blood but I require a more powerful microscope than what I have." Sherlock paused, and came up with a brief, idle idea. He glanced to his friend. "Shall I make breakfast?"

"I'm being violently sick and you're asking for breakfast?" John griped, swaying back and fighting down another go with emptying his stomach.

"I don't know," Sherlock turned away, a wry smile crept on him out of his friend's view, "I was thinking of serving up a plate of rotting eggs, embalming fluid and dead human entrails."

"I hate you," John's insides lurched, and he bent over the toilet bowl once more, the contents of his stomach erupting from him.

* * *

><p>The morgue was colder that day, or perhaps it was the July heat outside St. Bartholomew's that made it seem that way. John relaxed as they got through the swinging double doors into the lab. Though he'd spent a good forty minutes that morning emptying it, his stomach still clenched as if it were holding him hostage in its grip, and the antiseptic smell that lingered about hospitals did nothing to ease his discomfort.<p>

He glanced up at his taller friend, who was as unreadable as ever. John often was thankful that he could read faces, a result of having Bridge as a friend, but as always, he could rarely read Sherlock.

The lab was void of anything human; no one inside, the stench of chemicals and latex hung heavy in the air over the carts and trays of glassware, metal tools, computer monitors and scanners, and microscopes. The detective made a beeline for his usual desk, the center table with the spinning stool that allowed him to reach what he needed behind him without getting up from his seat.

"Satchel," He said, and John handed it over from where it'd been slung over his shoulder. Sherlock unloaded it carefully on the space beside him and began his work.

John's cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and flipped it open to read the text, ignoring the annoyed glare from the man in the stool. Bridge.

**Morning. Does your head hurt as much as mine does?**

The doors opened behind him before he could reply, and a small mass ran into his back. He turned to see the sprightly yet shy young woman who runs the morgue. She wore a modest knee-length skirt and blouse under her labcoat, and had her hair twisted up into a ponytail, a mousy waterfall down her back.

"Sorry, John, didn't see you there," Molly apologized, baring a smile to him as she clutched her clipboard to her chest. "What brings you here? On a case with Sherlock?"

"Yeah, for an old friend of mine," John explained, and she peered under his arm to spot Sherlock, who was adding an unknown chemical to a Petri dish. "Just running a check on some samples."

Molly bounced up on her tiptoes, her voice full of curiosity and friendliness. "Oh? Samples from what?"

"The blood of a kidnapper and henchman," Sherlock answered coolly, his eyes not moving from his work. He slid a Petri dish speckled with chips of dried reddish-brown blood under the microscope, and squinted into the eyepiece. "Or the blood of the Marine we're trying to locate and return to his sister. These tests shall determine which it is."

As he talked, John finally got back to Bridge's text. The corner of his mouth twitched up as he typed.

**I'm between a horse kick and a tension headache, but I'll live. How about you? Did you make it home alright? Sherlock says you did, but I wanted to double-check. **

"What's her name, John?" Molly teased, nudging his arm with the edge of her clipboard. "Texting someone with that smile, she ought to be special."

A muscle in Sherlock's neck jumped, though no one saw it; John waved a hand and despite the tops of his ears, the end of his nose dusting pink. In the foggy memories of last night, he did recall their conversation before the alcohol. When she told him of her deal, and he'd hugged her tight, as if he still accepted her. But above that, he remembered her kissing his cheek, the lightest of touches.

"Nothing like that," He insisted, his eyes not meeting Molly's. "She's a dear friend and colleague. Bridge."

"Bridge," Molly repeated, her lips curled around the word. "I like it."

"While I'd love _nothing more_ than to pretend the two of you don't exist in the same plane as I do," Sherlock interjected, raising his head from where he'd leant into the microscope. "I've found something you may want to relay to the anarchist."

"She's not an anarchist," John reminded him for the umpteenth time.

"What? Your friend's a-" Molly asked, her thin eyebrows pulling together in alarm.

"She's not a bloody anarchist," The doctor said, exasperated in his defeat.

Scribbling a few words on a notepad nearby, Sherlock sneered a bit coldly, "And you say you're not attached to her. But I'm hardly interested in your romantic endeavors, however amusing they may be."

He looked for a second as if he may shoo Molly out of the room, but shrugged, as if making up his mind. His tone mocked. "You may stay, Molly. You learn something new every day."

The detective gestured towards the dish. "Who did we originally believe this blood belonged to?"

"Leonard's kidnapper," John said automatically. Sherlock shook his head, and held up a different Petri dish, labeled 'Bridge Grayson'.

"This is Bridge's blood." John's eyes narrowed suspiciously. With an irritated sigh, Sherlock clarified, "She'd needed the bandages on her cheek changed last night while you were passed out, so I changed them for her and sampled her blood from them."

It was only partly a lie; she had needed her bandages changed and he had gotten her blood from them – that was true, but he'd done it when he'd gotten her back to her flat. He noticed that under the bandages, her skin was agitated like she hadn't let it heal properly. Most peculiar.

"The blood from inside the house matches hers," He said, tapping the dish with a long spidery finger. "Bridge and Leonard are fraternal twins, and although they do not share the exact sequence of DNA strands, they share their blood type, unlike most fraternal twins I've seen. They're B+. And the blood from the broken vase is A+, belonging to the intruder. I found it all over their living room, confirming that Leonard had put up a fight, but was subdued when more men entered the room."

"Hold on a minute, how do you know that Bridge and Leonard have the same blood type?" John inquired, "You haven't left Baker Street all week, and you haven't seen her records-"

"You're a doctor who has worked with both of them. Do they have the same blood type?"

"Yeah, but-"

Sherlock produced a third dish from his satchel. "This is the blood found on Dillion Cass's knife after I hauled him down to the stream to dissolve. I checked him all over and found this around his neck…the blood had to belong to Leonard Grayson."

The detective fished a hand into his pockets. There was a sound of jingling, and he pulled out a long chain, a pair of dog tags dangling from the end. Clearly engraved on the little silver plates was Leonard's full name under the spots of crimson. John's mouth opened as Sherlock dropped them into his open hands. On a sort of unsaid cue, John's cell phone buzzed once again. Mutely, he opened the text holding his phone in one hand and the bloodstained dog tags of the sender in the other. Molly watched with hesitant eyes where Sherlock kept his on his friend.

**I did. I'm alright. I'm going to let you go now, I've got a few things to do and I'll be out of Baker Street most of today. I'll see you later, Captain. **

"Why didn't you give these to me before?" He demanded, shutting his phone without replying and Molly glanced between them nervously. Sherlock the soul of calm, collectedness, and yet he seemed on edge. John's shoulders squared, his jaw tense.

"I needed to prove my theory. This isn't natural spatter caused from injury to its wearer. This is as if someone, or if Cass had planned to, had planted the evidence the best they could to make it look like a kidnapping. The footprints I found all over the house, too heavy and pronounced to be running or attacking." Sherlock answered lithely, as if what he was about to say wasn't blasphemy to his friend's ears. "I have reason to believe Leonard went with the men willingly."

"That's ridiculous," John spat, and began to feel sick again, though not with nausea. He simply could not imagine one of his oldest friends doing what was being implied here. "'Willingly'? Like he turned traitor?"

Molly grew anxious and she backed away slowly, then dipping out of the room. As much as she would be inclined to step between them and get them calmed down, it was none of her business and she knew it was wrong to poke her nose where it didn't belong.

"It's a very real possibility," Sherlock admitted pensively, "Or our consulting criminal had threatened him to come quietly. He may be closer than we think, John."

The silence in the room after he'd finished speaking was like knives in his ears. His eyes searched the other man's, his hands limp on his knees as he sat. Normally, he would've been happy with silence, but never from John. He watched as the doctor turned his back to him, his head bent and staring at the silvery tags in his hand. Sherlock could hear the man's even, steady breaths.

He could not imagine it really, losing a friend. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends, not even colleagues. Not before Dr. John Watson entered his life. Out of a cruel, harsh curiosity, he threw himself into the mindset of the woman in 221C. He thought of what a horrid, desperate world it would be if someone were to rip John from him. He didn't have to think about it: he would scour the world, pull every string, take every vital step, and do whatever was required until John was at his side again. And so, he'd always wondered, perhaps he wasn't that separate in mindset from the Graysons. They would die for each other, just as he would kill in a heartbeat for John.

Tearing them from their thoughts was the sound of Sherlock's phone ringing. John broke out of his quiet and looked at him, the detective retrieving it from his pocket.

Sherlock's dark eyebrows came together, and he raised his phone to his ear. "Lestrade."

John listened anxiously, resting the dog tags inside the breast pocket of his jacket and making a promise to give them to Bridge tonight.

"Yes…St. Bartholomew's, we're on a case….Whitechapel, what's that got to do with-" Sherlock's mouth opened in surprise. "_What _are you talking about? Of course it's not-…Organs removed… Yes, yes I'm familiar with it…Her name was…Emma Smith? We'll be there momentarily, don't touch _anything_. Am I clear? Not a thing. Keep Anderson in the van, he's a waste of payroll…I'm _very_ serious." He clicked it off.

"What did Lestrade want?"

Sherlock was already out of his seat, adjusting his black blazer. He pulled a piece of scrap paper towards him and scribbled a few lines in a note intended for Molly. "There's been a brutal murder in Whitechapel, and he wants my input. He thinks it may be of interest to us."

He finished his note and the pair left the lab. John was buttoning up his jacket, and they were half-running down the halls of St. Bartholomew's then. "Something to do with our problem?"

"Not at the moment, but it may be." Sherlock pushed the door open for the doctor, and they were bombarded by the heat wave of London in the July summer. It was almost noon, and rush hour was just around the corner, the streets were beginning to look congested with people.

John called a cab that was about to miss them, and as it approached their stretch of sidewalk, he inquired to the detective, "You were shocked at something Lestrade said, what was it?"

He settled into the taxi seat after Sherlock, and once the cabbie was told where to go, they were on their way.

"He called the murderer 'Jack the Ripper.'"

* * *

><p>Dear Readers,<p>

This is where the plot gets rather thick and syrupy, so don't forget to stay tuned and review!

Have a brilliant day!

Best Regards,

GP


End file.
